


And When I Dream in Colours

by artattemptswriting



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Timelines, Bisexual Male Character, Cherik - Freeform, Depression, Goodbye Sex, Goodbyes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmate AU, because that's sad, probably, this will be kind of sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artattemptswriting/pseuds/artattemptswriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which two people only see colours once they have found their soulmate<br/>Or, that one in which Erik goes back to Charles after Cuba; where they try to come together again and reconcile their differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greyscale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: the original draft of this was written when I was going through a really rough patch, and some of that has seeped into my writing. It is heavy, and it is dark, and to all intents and purposes this is a Ventfic; however, I left it as raw as it was originally in order to capture Charles' pain and his depression. If you suffer from depression, or any other mental issues, or might generally be disturbed by this PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION or don't read at all. Stay safe and have a nice day :)

**Greyscale**

_An image devoid of all colour-  
_

_or_

_A world devoid of all hope._

* * *

 

Dust turns the pale white winter light a speckled grey, slanting across metal and making it gleam coldly; it spills through fluttering curtains, over dew-damp skin and a fevered brow, illuminating teeth bared in pain. Shadows cut into the face of the man on the bed, highlighting the hollow spaces between his brows, his narrowing cheeks, his sallow skin. Unwashed hair tangles on the pillow, longer and more unkempt than he would have once allowed; but he is unaware of how bad a state he is in. Glass from a smashed mirror is swept into one corner, fragments left scattered across the rug without a thought. Nightmares dance over the walls, bursting upon his sleeping consciousness in red and yellow and missile-blast orange, in sea blue and white sand. The sky is azure, a bowl encompassing white seabirds and the outline of high, blue-grey cliffs. Paradise it was, and paradise had been lost. He watches the landscape and the sky and the air itself be torn apart, watches how everything fades back into wavering hues of grey- and then he is bolting upright, wide awake, the cry in his throat never leaving his chapped lips.

Charles Xavier knows fear, and he knows nightmares, and in those moments of terror he had known true beauty; now there is only a worn out memory, one which haunts him whether awake or asleep. His breath rattles in his throat, through lungs weakened by stale air and lack of good use. Coughing, he reaches out and pulls his chair closer to the side of the bed, heaving himself into it. The metal is cold under his fingers, unaffected by the sunlight, which only brings a chill into the room. He shudders. Summer is gone, autumn broken, and winter has taken hold of his estate like a vice. Winter, he reflects, has been a part of his heart for a very long time; winter has made her home here, in these empty halls and echoing rooms. He moves like a spectre, operating by force of autopilot alone in order to drift to the window and lean his forehead against the glass, surrounding himself in the musty fabric of the curtains. He still feels cold; the house still feels empty, even as some sounds of life carry on the breeze.  Alex and Hank are the only ones left, and a place like this needs more than three beating hearts to keep it alive.  Charles can see them now, those two unlikely friends, Alex sitting on the ground and shouting something and Hank running, almost a blur, working with the advice given to him nearly a year ago now. They think that by practising like this, in the hours when Charles sleeps or hides in the darkness of his room, they can shield him from bitterness over his own useless legs. Hank is sweet; he wants to help, to atone for his guilt at not being able to keep Charles safe. Alex simply stays because he thinks he has nowhere else to go, rootless, unable to offer much but offering what he can nonetheless. As Charles eases the window open, Hank looks up and stumbles to a halt. Sweat stands out on his bare arms despite the cold, and he squints without his glasses, which are hooked on the front of Alex’s shirt. The three men share a moment of silence, fraught with Charles’ sadness- with Hank’s awkwardness, and Alex’s blasé nature- and then Charles withdraws back into darkness and pulls his curtains closed once more. It hurts to watch them.

He and Erik had stood on that same terraced rise once, sharing, and understanding- and by understanding, they had begun to fall. If only Charles had known then that they would not hit the ground together. Of course, he wouldn’t have changed a thing, but he could have prepared himself for the pain of landing alone. Where is Erik now? Charles knows the answer:  causing trouble, gathering mutants, and doing more with his life than Charles can even hope to manage. He tells people it is the pain which makes things difficult, but the pain in his legs is only a phantom; in reality it is memory, it is Moira, and it is the man who is becoming Magneto. He dozes fitfully, in a stupor of nostalgia, nodding off in his chair by the door.  He tries to think of something else, barely rouses himself, and chases away the fading imprints of his nightmare with the last of the brandy on his nightstand.

When Charles finally brings himself downstairs, he finds bags piled by the front door. There are only two, and he knows that one contains clothes and the other a book, a suit, and a photograph of a group of children on the last happy night of their lives together. Voices rise and fall from the kitchen, anger buzzing in the air.

 _“-_ you would leave me alone with him? He hasn’t been himself-” Hank, his voice tightly controlled but straining.

“-yes, I know, but my family-” Alex, his tone sharp and snappish, brimming with restrained emotions.

“-and we’re the only one he has-” two voices trying to keep quiet, alternating between angry, desperate hisses and borderline shouts. Charles knows what the subject of the fight is- because he has been the subject of many like this one, and he has been left feeling all the more powerless for it. Straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat, he wheels himself in. Straight back, stiff upper lip, _no, Charles, don’t you dare look at them._ Passing the two, Alex perched on the counter and Hank on the table, going straight to the fridge where the beers are kept. His hands meet the smooth surface of the door without betraying him, they take the beer can without the slightest tremor, and he lifts it up and takes the first sip with a steady gaze. Another brandy would be better, after the night he had, but that is not kept in the kitchen. That would be showing too much of his decline. His business is here. Slowly, deliberately, giving himself time to put on the smile which has become a facade, Charles turns himself to face his two students.

“Alex, if your family has contacted you again and if they are willing to accept you back home, go to them,” He says calmly, measuring the right amount of mirth into his gaze, the right amount of dry humour into his tone. It is hard, so hard, but playing at being alright is what he does best.

“How-” Alex raises his eyebrows, shrugs, catches himself. Straightening his jacket, he fixes his gaze momentarily on Hank and stands up. “Thank you, professor,”

“Hank will drive you,” Charles adds, turning his stare on the third member of their little group, “Make sure you settle in and that everything is alright, and bring you back here if anything goes wrong. We don’t have a protocol about going home, but if we did, that would be it,” he manages to smile a little then, genuinely, and perhaps that is what keeps Hank from protesting. Charles doesn’t need to be a telepath to sense how badly both men want to argue with him, to feel their tenseness and bated breath; their shared concern: it is the concern he despises most of all.

Nobody moves at first. Charles knows that from behind him, Hank is staring at the beer can, and thinking about the bright morning outside, about how it is not yet midday. Alex looks confident enough, but he is unsure beneath that. These are children, Charles thinks, and they are taking care of him like parents. He needs them gone, for a few days at least: he needs space to breathe, space to wallow in his own misery and think, space to make choices without constantly having to be okay for the sake of his only remaining students... _only remaining friends._ Staring at them, it feels like the right choice to make; for their sakes, if not his.

“Well, the last time I checked that car isn’t programmed to drive itself,” he prompts gently, and as he speaks he tries to remember what colour it is. Blue? Red? It has been far too long since he had stood, a hand on Erik’s shoulder, admiring how sun gleamed on the paintwork and brought out the tone. Now it looks like a dark grey, surrounded by vaguely sepia tones, waiting for Alex and Hank to get in. The pain sets in behind Charles’ smile, and it tightens a notch. He quickly sets down his beer can, the noise of aluminium hitting marble a little too loud; a little too definite, and then the tension rushes from the room.

“Of course,” Hank adjusts his glasses and gets to his feet, pushing his hair back off his forehead. Charles thinks it is dark brown, if his memory serves correctly, but his memory is also his enemy and the unbidden thought brings discomfort.  He holds himself together as tightly as he can, watching as Hank takes one bag and Alex the other, waiting as they slowly start to leave. Charles waits- waits for their footsteps to crunch on the gravel, for a car door to slam, before touching one cool finger to his temple and urging a thought into Hank and Alex’s minds

_I want to show Hank my hometown. I want to keep him staying with us for a few weeks._

_I want to stay away from this place for a few weeks. I want to see Alex’s hometown._

And Charles watches from the doorway; he watches how neither Alex nor Hank glance back once, their eyes on the road ahead and their departure announced by the pulsing of distant music thrumming against Charles’ ears, and the call of a bird disturbed from the hedgerows. He listens to the day, searching for greenery and knowing he will not see it.

And Charles wheels himself back inside the house, into the quiet and the emptiness, and he takes the brandy from its hidden cabinet with regret weighing heavy in his bones.

* * *

 

 Isolation is a ravenous beast. It tears away at the mind and soul until all that remains is hollowness, devouring what is good and sowing the seeds of desolation. If Charles had been bad before, after four days alone he is far worse. After two days he had stopped trying to think about things, stopped trying to decide; after three, he had stopped getting out of bed before late noon. He can guess what is wrong with him. They had been two souls when they met, and when he and Erik parted they had become two halves of a whole- each side of a coin, if he allowed himself the poetry of it. He has heard love described as so many things: as a something breathtaking and invigorating, like Moira, or as something binding and familial, like Raven; or as a type of madness, and if madness is trying and trying and then failing in expectation of a different result, then _that_  is the word for himself and Erik.

Phantom pains and biting chills wrack his body in turn, and he shudders in his bed. A guilty conscience, he can almost _hear_ Erik saying to him, and then he cries out the unfairness of the accusation. He shouts down the shadows, demanding, because, _what does he have to be guilty for?_ Does having faith- does _trusting_ and _believing-_ make him guilty? He cannot bear to look at himself at all, because he has failed the children he once thought of teaching, and failed himself most of all. First the bathroom mirror is smashed, and then several glasses, and the brandy supply wears dangerously low. Repeatedly Charles searches for Erik, blocking out every other mutant in his wild, brandy-soaked attempts to find the man who so cruelly abandoned him on that veritable Armageddon for his dream of a mutant-human alliance. Ghosts become his lodgers and his landlords, and he pays the rent with blood and sweat. It never once occurs to him that this is insanity, brought on by the events of the past year; or some form of post traumatic stress disorder, after all, losing his mobility, his friends and his entire _purpose_ would have that effect. At first he tries to think like Erik: he thinks of revenge. Then he remembers himself, if only briefly, and longs for forgiveness or an opportunity to forgive.

He doesn’t know how long it is until he loses himself. It could be towards the end of the first week, or after a few days. The greyness of his reality is no longer an issue when everything is tainted amber. Drunk, his world steeped in a thrill of intoxication, he finds himself out on the terrace in the midst of a winter flurry. Snow settles on his bare arms and frosts his tangled hair; the cold does not touch him. There is a pounding in his head that will not stop, someone talking to him from a great distance, reaching him through a gossamer veil that separates him from the things that are real. He has no idea whether he is imagining things or not. Somehow his chair lies behind him in the powder-dusting of snow, and his arms cling, shaking to the stone railings.

When he sees Erik’s face, all brown stubble and dark frowns, he thinks he is dreaming; dreaming in colour as he so often does. The warm hand on his feels unreal after so long, and the piercing blue of that magnetizing gaze strikes him through to his core. What a nice dream, Charles thinks, as the coldness seeps into his bones and leaden warmth settles in his chest. What a lovely dream.  What a wonderful, perfect dream. Paradise found, he smiles to himself, and shuts his eyes.

 

 


	2. Sepia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos! Since this is the second chapter I would love to talk to some of you and read what you think so far :) Happy reading, and remember that Charles is deliberately a bit of a little shit in this chapter whoops.

**Sepia**

_A monochrome image of red gold  
_

_An image of almost colour; yet not colour at all_

* * *

 

The first thing he sees is colour. Yellow light, blue eyes, a peach coloured flannel being wrung out by a pair of calloused hands; flashes of information sparking his hazed brain. Someone is pushing him back down into warmth, fingers in his hair, and the scent of soap. There is blackness, and there is a red fever, and then there is a mindless, numbing nothingness which seeps into his deep slumber and holds him fast. Charles is on a rolling sea, rocked side to side, unaware of time or place. He does not know when he is at his worst; blissfully, as small mercies are granted, he is shielded from his darkest nights when the sheets are soaked and his carer swears and blunders his way through re-making the bed. Sometimes Charles resurfaces, in the space of a gasp and a heartbeat, taking in little things: a soup bowl, the glint of a thermometer, a large blue blanket. He thinks he tries to talk, but his words scrape past his throat as nothing but dry air. He might try to sit up, but it is more a thought than an action. Once, he sees Angel, standing sullenly by the bed with her ghastly pale skin and tattered wings; he cries for help, cries to be left alone, and someone holds him down until sleep swallows him again. Sometimes Raven is in the room too, and that might be real, because she speaks and touches his forehead; but then she ripples like a mirage, and leaves him as the false promise of water leaves a desperate man in the desert. Crying, whimpering, begging in turns.

It takes time, but then comes the night when they all crowd into Charles' room: all the ghosts he wants to keep at bay, those left behind and lost in the war between mutants and humans. It is a war that should not be fought, but a war with hundreds of casualties nonetheless. Some have faces, some don't- but every man, woman and child has a voice; the voices Charles hears in his head when his control is weakest and his talent most volatile. He has to drown them out with his own cries, his apologies, and his back arches and his jaw clenches and his veins sear white hot. He bares his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut and his hands curl into fists until crescent moons mark his clammy palms and the blood swells up in tiny droplets.

His consciousness is straining, pushing, surging through the thin skin of fever and the keen point of his mind is on tenterhooks. Any moment the skin will break, the point tearing through and from the red haze Charles will emerge again. He can taste it, feel it, almost touch it; clarity is near. Already the tide is falling back. It leaves him battered from jagged cliffs, drenched and weak, utterly helpless, but alive all the same and able to _think_. Breaking point. How he craves it. He craves it, but cannot reach it. So Charles tosses and turns, Charles watches the ghosts of his guilt, and Charles remains oblivious.

Erik is with him the whole time. He is frightened by the situation, but he stays all the same, doing what he can for his old friend. He is frightened because this is not the Charles he knew; this man who has lost himself to fever is not the bright-eyed telepath with all his hopes and dreams for the future and that ruination is, unalterably, Erik's fault. Charles Xavier is sick. He is wasting away in a fever dream, shivering like a drowned man, but the sickness is far deeper than his burning skin. This is a sickness of the mind, the sort Erik knows well; this is the sickness of a broken man. Erik sees in Charles what he had seen in Shaw's other little pet projects, the ones who were not strong enough to withstand the mental and physical strain placed upon them, and so had shattered under the pressure. Erik wanted to believe Charles stronger than those people and that, so he tells himself, is why he felt he could take Raven, take Charles' hopes, and leave that beach with its scene of destruction behind.  Erik is disappointed: but whether in himself or in Charles, who knows? Ultimately, his disappointment had told him to leave. When Erik found the shell of his friend he had been so determined to turn on his heel and sweep right back out through the gates. He had even savoured the abhorration rising in his throat to the point of satisfaction. Didn't Charles deserve such a damning isolation for failing his children; for failing his students? But he could not do that, of course. With the snow dancing in his eyes and peppering the black sky a toneless white, Erik ran back and found himself on his knees besides Charles' cooling body. _What do you think you're playing at?_ Erik had demanded of Charles, pulling him up, shouting in anger because anger had always been Erik's primary directive; always will be, he thinks to himself with conviction.

All those pretty-mouthed speeches, so carefully constructed with choice phrases and that English accent, they mean nothing. _Between rage and serenity_. Nothing. The man who so persistently pushed them onto Erik is now completely useless, had been unaware and helpless when Erik hauled him back into his chair, is still oblivious as he lies in his bed and wheezes. Yet, that is too harsh, and far from the truth. Erik may not be a gentle person, but seeing Charles in this way inspires a caring nature Erik thought stripped from him in Auschwitz. Even now, pitiful mess that Erik thinks Charles is, the telepath can still bring all the best parts of Erik back to the light. He is still inspiring change, albeit without words, after all this time. Some things never change; they never change, perhaps, because no matter how impossible the route, they cannot go any other way.

So Erik does everything he can, and he waits. Little things keep coming back to him in this house, with Charles, and with this old desperation born of caring. Charles had been so, so cold and Erik had been forced to give him a warm bath to keep the life moving in Charles' veins. The colours which set the bathroom on fire terrify him. They terrify him to the extent that he drops the shampoo bottle- purple? Or is that violet? Oh, what does it matter?- and his grip slips from Charles' hair. For a while Erik sits in silence, taking comfort in the quiet of his greyscale world, before he tentatively reaches out and continues. His fingers trail down Charles’ spine, the curve of his hips, and then they find the raised skin of a scar; not just any scar either. Erik leans in and tenderly brushes his lips over it, inhaling the scent of sweat slowly being replaced by soap. His forehead presses against Charles’ bare back. Deep down beneath the burning skin, Erik senses the faintest trace of metal: a ghostly remnant and a reminder of what had happened deep inside. He can still remember feeling the bullet break free from bone, sinew and flesh, twisting at his command and causing more damage on the way out. He remembers the pain in Charles’ face. He remembers the betrayal, and where there are things he remembers, there are other things which he had forgotten.

  He had forgotten the exact shade of Charles' hair, the deep chestnut brown of it, and his blue eyes... oh, his eyes, the colour of the sky after a spring rain, so different from Erik's storm-dark ones as they stare at him from the bathroom mirror. These are the little things Erik wanted to stay forgotten. Nonetheless, he soon relaxes and takes his time to clean Charles up, taking care with his fragile body which has become so unused to touch Erik is afraid it will break like ancient porcelain. When he tucks Charles into bed he takes his time to appreciate the deep red of the curtains, the honey grain in the wood floor beneath a cream rug, everything vibrant and new to him after so long. He brushes his fingers over Charles' hands, taking in scars from shattered glass across the knuckles, and presses a kiss to each one respectively. Once he can no longer find reasons to be with Charles, Erik retreats to the kitchen and shuts his eyes because everything has faded to sepia, and then to greyscale, and he feels cold in this colourless world for the first time in his life. The first time he had seen colour, his body against Charles' as they struggled underwater, it had been too much and too loud for him. Now he craves it. Erik is restless, he paces, he makes himself tea, and then he makes Charles tea too although the latter is too disconnected from the real world to drink it. He paces, and he cares, and he worries and he _craves_ to the extent where he begins spending more and more time in Charles' room.

Three days are spent like this; they are three days where Erik battles his emotions while suffering through Charles' disjointed cries and feverish ramblings, suffering it in silence even when Charles talks about Moira, even when Charles talks about Angel, about Darwin... about the dead, about the lost. Erik sees them too, he thinks sharply, but he does not let the ghosts get to him. Not like this. Irritation gets him sometimes, so strongly that he has to break something and the iron railings outside become warped entirely out of shape. Irritation brings on his own guilt, so carefully wrapped up in anger that he is bowled over by the emotion and left sitting, slumped, across Charles' useless legs during the long, long nights.

Erik cleans rooms to distract himself, sweeping away glass and polishing dusty furniture, opening windows to dispel the moth-wrought must which lingers in every corner, every crevice.He makes endless bowls of soup once he finds that Charles can keep that down, and he does every task with grim-faced efficiency. No, not a gentle person, but a caring one; and that caring is enough or, at least, enough to make him stay.

Wondering about Charles' possible fate if Erik had not been coming to gloat- to gloat, of all things, about his own successes and to once again ask Charles to stand by his side- Erik gets a glimpse of a funeral and black suits, white shirts, white faces, grey sky. That glimpse is enough to convince his turbulent mind. He stays, will stay for as long as Charles needs him, and he no longer feels quite so irritated.

Time wears away at Erik. On the evening of the third day, Erik sits beneath the black night sky. Snow has since turned to frost, and the cold bites, but Erik has seen worse winters and so he grits his teeth and huddles down inside his coat. His cool hands cradle a coffee mug, as he silently wills the caffeine to rush to his brain. He needs to stay alert.

_Sleeping helps you stay alert_

Erik almost jumps out of his skin. Charles’ step on his mental territory is so light, and it makes Erik shudder. This is yet another little thing he wanted to forget: the balance and clarity which the touch inspires, the soothing nature of Charles’ thoughts up against his own. It has been far too long.

 _I agree._ Erik imagines Charles smiling. With a deep breath, Erik slams his mental guards back up and he waits patiently, feeling disappointment followed by a careful retreat. Erik clenches his fists, having set his coffee mug down when his hands started shaking.

Now that Charles is awake he is afraid. Relieved, yes; happy, maybe- but he is afraid. It was impossible to tell from the telepathic whisper whether Charles is angry, bitter, or just too far gone into his decline to care.

“Erik?” the voice is cracked. Erik has to force himself not to flinch, to face Charles with a calm gaze. His expression is all sharp lines, deep cracks, shadows. A mask, and one he has spent decades perfecting; he let it down for Charles once, but not this time. Charles is wearing the deep red dressing gown Erik found for him, a blanket thrown across his legs. He is still pale and drawn, but his eyes are clear of fever.

“Yes.” Not a question or a statement, but an acknowledgement. How awkward. Erik should be saying something more, like asking Charles how he is or—

 _Don’t ask me that. I’m fed up with being asked that._ Charles stares steadily at Erik, one eyebrow rising almost imperceptibly. There is a twitch in one corner of the telepath’s lips; something trying to be a smile, but not even reaching the halfway mark.

“Get out of my head.” Erik bites out, but it lacks the hatred he wishes to convey, the curdled emotions which are even now, as he thinks about how beautiful Charles looks, congealing in his stomach. Charles clears his throat pointedly.

Just like that, all of Erik’s anger dissipates. Motioning for Charles to stay where he is, Erik quickly heads into the kitchen and grabs a glass. It is a brandy glass, which should not surprise Erik one bit, but he fills it with water and takes it back to his old friend. Charles looks at the clear liquid wistfully, and Erik knows what Charles wants; he knows, and he wishes he could satiate the craving the telepath must have, but Erik will not give him what he wants. Mrs Xavier was an alcoholic, her son is depressed, and those two things should never mix: tendencies to addiction and a decaying mind can only have catastrophic consequences when thrown together. Charles glares sullenly, but he drinks it still.

“Thank you, Erik.” Oh, how good it is to hear that voice, to watch those lips move and form a coherent sentence. He may still be struggling, but Erik prefers to have Charles talking rather than inside his head. If he needs it, his helmet is on the kitchen counter; because Erik is prepared for any eventuality, and because some part of Erik does not want him to trust his friend. No sooner than the thoughts are formed does he regret them. Charles barely flinches, but his face tightens, and the hand which still rests by a wheel tightens until the knuckles are bone white. “Use it, if you wish. Or you can just ask me nicely to stop reading your mind.”

“Stop reading my mind-” Erik pauses, flashing one of his insincere smiles which are all teeth and no emotion, “- _please._ ”

Erik gets no satisfaction from Charles’ downcast eyes, or from the way he seems to sink back into his chair as if he wishes his mutation is camouflage. He thought it would have pleased him, but instead he only feels a pang of guilt which rattles his heart and leaves him aching. Is this what they are to become? Is this really what he and Charles _do?_

In the silence, awkwardness creeps in. What can you say to someone who is hurting so deeply; hurting because of your actions? There is nothing more that Erik can say. He whispered all of his apologies when Charles slept on, murmuring them against Charles’ scarred fingers and damp forehead. Now he cannot summon that same gentle, romantic, pearly security from deep within himself like he had done before. This what Erik wanted all along: Charles and him, just the two of them, no awkward teenagers or Hank, the second shadow attached to Charles’ side. Yet it is a miserable thing, because their relationship is hardly a shell of what it had been, and Erik feels like a pale imitation of himself.

“Charles—”

“I need some time alone.” Charles raises his hand and that silences Erik perfectly; not because Charles used a little bit of his psychic energy, but because that calm command of authority is something Erik recognises from before Cuba.

_Before Cuba._

What a lovely divide between then and now. Erik’s mind is separated into the Shaw part, torn open when his mother was shot and then slammed shut when the coin tore his brains and parted his skull, and the before Shaw part; now there is also Before Cuba, and After Cuba. Almost all of those little compartments relate back to Charles. Charles, who is now wheeling away from him, looking shrunken and small in his wheelchair. Erik remains leaning against the wall, and shuts his eyes when Charles’ study door slams shut. He hears glass chink against glass. Erik does not understand; nor does he want to know how a simple bullet could send so great a man down the neck of a brandy decanter, and keep him there.


	3. Negative

**Negative**

_An image where the colour qualities are reversed._

_Light becomes dark; dark becomes light._

* * *

The white queen has not moved. She lies on her side, her head at the feet of the black king; Charles’ fingers drum against the armrest of his chair, and his eyes restlessly survey the board. He and Erik are not playing, and have not played since Erik arrived. The one great steeple of their friendship has been left to crumble, decay, and be forgotten in favour of Charles’ hours of empty staring. Erik is watching him bemusedly.

“They won’t move themselves.” He comments, taking a long sip of his coffee. He is sitting in the armchair on the opposite side of the room, sorting through a box of Charles’ records. Most of them have become warped and would not play, but some, fallen from their beautiful covers, are still alright. The phonograph itself stands dusty and solemn next to him. Erik remembers the music Charles used to play, and he is hoping that maybe once the phonograph is back in working condition and the records are sorted, Erik can coax some kind of life from Charles. If not chess, there must be something.

“Mh?” Charles glances at him absently, shakes his head, picks up a book from the stack next to the chessboard. Afternoons have passed in a haze this way: absentminded stares, disappointing lunches and long, long silences which frustrate Erik to no end. Charles eats little, talks some, and sleeps even less. Not one word passes between them that is not fraught with deep caverns, icy expanses, or traps which could cause a sudden, irate snap. Charles always seems to be irritated these days. “Why are you still here, Erik?” Charles sighs shortly. It is the same question he asked Erik yesterday, and the day before that.

“You need help.” The same answer. Repetition grates on Erik’s nerves, routines always send him back, and he just wants a break from the monotony. Life was never boring here before. Charles scoffs and rolls his eyes.  “Charles, you are a mess. Since Hank and Alex left, there is nobody else to stop you doing something stupid.” Erik pokes a little further than usual, hoping for a response.

Charles looks up at him with eyes like a kicked puppy. Not the response Erik wanted at all, and yet he cannot help but feel relieved that he has gotten something. Desperation is new to him, and he has decided he does not like it one bit. Erik wants to reach out and touch Charles, just so that this awful situation is a little more alive; other couples he knows are always together, always finding reasons to be in some form of physical contact, and they work so well. Raven and Azazel are one example. Those two run like a well oiled machine, closer than any couple Erik has seen in a while; and he may not like it, but at least Azazel isn’t Hank. He and Charles were once a well oiled machine, but now they are a machine which has a bullet in the cogs and months of neglect turning the engine stone cold.

“I am sure you have better places to be; innocents to kill, a rein of mutant superiority to build.” Charles looks away from him, a stiff jerk to his tense neck. Erik sucks in a shuddering breath, tension burning in his muscles and his tightly clenched jaw. The sarcasm hurts. Charles’ wheelchair starts to creak, and rock, and then it is rising with the metal chess pieces. Erik’s will is sometimes separate from his common sense; which, in this day and age, is anything but common. After all he has been taught, after Shaw and after Cuba, it is easy to lose himself to the hum of power rising every time he becomes upset or angry. He is angry now: at himself, at Charles, that stupid chess board still set up from their last game together, and most of all at Hank for leaving Charles in so vulnerable a state. He wants to choke that blue fur ball when he next sees him, wants to make him sorry for letting Charles down. Anything, _anything_ , would be easier than accepting the real source of blame as Erik; or as Charles, who ultimately let himself fall so far. Erik may have deflected the bullet, Moira may have fired the gun, Shaw may have ruined everything all over again- but Charles dug himself in deeper, and Erik hates him for it, because he still wants to shield him. Still wants to believe in that good, naive young heir with his expensive tastes and outrageous bank account.

Charles is watching him with wide eyes, no doubt getting every vicious, backhanded thought as it snarls up from Erik’s subconsciousness. His mental footsteps are prowling the edges of Erik’s mind, tentative, unwilling to cross into the no-man’s land he foreswore that day in Cuba. At some point Erik must have stood up, because even though Charles is now floating a good few feet off the carpet, their gazes are level.

“Put my bloody chair down.” Charles says evenly, with a tight look on his face that both betrays and hides everything he is feeling: fear, sadness, and uncertainty. One of the chess pieces, a black pawn, buckles in on itself. Both men look at it; they see through it, to each other, and it is a moment of clarity which Erik sorely needed. Seeing not anger, but disappointment, in Charles’ eyes sends molten lead washing through Erik’s insides. The pieces fall, clattering onto the table and the carpet, and it takes every ounce of Erik’s frayed self control to lower the telepath back down slowly.

Erik waits and he holds his breath tightly within his chest. He will not let anything go; he does not dare to move. He is waiting for the return, the mental bite, but nothing is coming. Charles’ presence has receded from his mind, leaving him feeling wretched and empty and, bizarrely, _longing_ for that gentle touch to return.

“I am going back to bed.” Charles says slowly, wheeling himself backwards and taking the book with him. His chair hits the white queen where she has fallen, and Charles curses, awkwardly moves himself around it. Erik still hasn’t drawn in fresh air. A tremble has rooted itself in the base of his spine. His legs and his hands last just long enough for Charles to finally leave the room, before he sinks back down into his chair. He can sense the clunky metal lift, fitted a long time ago judging by the aged tremor of the metal, moving upwards; he can feel Charles’ chair, so newly acquainted with his magnetic will, getting further away. Something stings in his eyes, in the place behind them where emotions roil his conscience. he exhales very slowly.

Erik Lehnsherr very rarely cries, but today he almost feels he could.

* * *

 

"Hurt me."

Erik looks up sharply from the book he has been reading- no, staring at- for the past hour. Charles is not speaking to him. He is staring at his lap, at where his hands tangle with the blanket, white against pale grey. His words are not meant for Erik's ears. He says it again, two simple words which send shudders racing straight through Erik's chest; and his tone is sharp, knife-like, as if trying to cut through lifeless bone and sinew. As if that will do him any good. Erik gets up and walks out of the room.

The dynamics between them have been reversed. Two sides of a coin, they had always said, and now that coin has been flipped as if by the hand of a child playing idle games. It is a game of the heart, of the mind, and of the soul- three of the most fragile, breakable parts of a human. Erik had all three of those things broken and consumed, battered by greif, and Charles healed him with his clever, clever words. Erik lacks that capability, he thinks, and so he does not try; he only wishes for change.

***

It is a warm night, or at least warmer than the bitter darkness which has swathed the Xavier estate for the past week. The only snow left is a few stubborn drifts, piled up in corners and against walls. The freak weather which had knifed through America is slowly fading.  Charles and Erik sit outside the back of the house, drinking tea and coffee respectively. Charles is watching Erik; he is observing how he squints down at his book, how he hunches over in the fading light and how his fingers follow the words. There is something on his mind, something distracting him; Charles does not need to be a telepath to tell.

"What is it?" he breaks the silence for the first time that day, tentative with the volume of his voice. Crickets whirr in the undergrowth and birds whistle to one another, calling their partners home for the night ahead.

"Why do you want them to hurt you?" Erik looks up at him, a semi sideways glance which sends an electric jolt down Charles' spine, and his lips hardly move. Neither of them want to speak above whispers, it seems; neither of them want to break the spell of evening. There is a memory on the surface of Erik's mind, one brightened by worry and the torment it induces, so loud that Charles has no choice but to let it in. Him, sitting in his chair. _Hurt me._ Charles barely remembers saying that.

"It would make a change from my back. It would be something." He shrugs, looking away from Erik and across the gardens. Nature has already dared to slink back in. Trees once neatly trimmed are growing back, bushes losing their shape; beyond the once green hedges that border the summer garden, Charles knows that the pool will be full of leaves. After the events of the day before, the imprint of that pawn still branded on his eyelids, Charles can hardly believe they are talking. But that is what isolation does, is it not? You do what it takes to be rid of the beast. He laughs.

"What's so funny?" Erik sounds irked by it, and Charles' empty laugh finishes as quickly as it burst from his lips.

"You. _Caring._ " he shrugs. And what else is he supposed to think? This is not the Erik he thinks he knows; he can barely remember what Erik used to be like with him, so many good memories scattered down a long road of drink and despair. "It just doesn't suit you."

Charles can almost _hear_ Erik's eye roll.

"Self pity doesn't suit you either." Erik takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. It is so nice, seeing him relaxed like this. This could almost be an idyllic evening: the view, the crickets, the hot beverages. A sparrow, late home to the nest, flashes by. It's female is calling him, and Charles has to stop himself from looking back at Erik. He realises then that he is smiling, and it is not forced. He is not measuring out emotions and figuring out what his facade might look like before pulling it up over his face: he is genuinely, achingly, smiling. The only new thing in his life which could prompt such a thing is Erik. Erik, whom he wanted to forgive; Erik, for whom his anger and hatred feels unlimited. Erik, who is projecting some very interesting thoughts without meaning to, the memory boosted by the unfailing strength of nostalgia.

The last time they sat like this, over a year younger and yet, they seemed like teenagers. New to this, excited, both buzzing from the thrill of it all. They had been playing chess then, talking; the conversation deep and getting deeper, until Erik had leaned in and they kissed for the first time. An accident, Erik had spluttered, before Charles gripped the front of his turtleneck and pulled him back in; he had been so curious. Pale, ghostlike, his consciousness had probed forwards and searched out what Erik was feeling, exploring, _yearning_ to know more. Two men, kissing; not a new concept, but still something new to them, and something intoxicatingly dangerous when their world was already fraught enough. They could have lost it all because of that- and in the end, they lost it all because of one another.

And now Charles is both crying and smiling. Hot tears streak his cheeks, but his smile refuses to fade. He wipes his eyes, shaking his head.

"That was a beautiful accident." He murmurs, and feels the deep-seated scream of Erik's embarassment rising, rising but not showing on his face. He is aware of discomfort, and the overly familair _stay out of my head_ which Erik just about thinks, and certainly does not say. An impulse. An instinct. He does it without planning to. "Oh, don't be like that, Erik. I can't help it, your thoughts get so loud sometimes..." _sometimes, when you think about us._ But he doesn't let that thought slip beyond his own mind; it would not do for Erik to know that Charles has heard every single one of Erik's memories, his nostalgic recollections, his longing fantasies. All around them he gets a sense of something unfurling. Erik has allowed something old, something sealed, to re-open deep inside Charles.

Oh, how times have changed.

Now it is Erik unlocking the beautiful memories, believed forgotten; Erik's turn to widen Charles' horizons.

Erik stands up, stiffly, knocking back coffee which must be cold in the cup, throwing the sediment of granuals onto the grass. He looks at Charles, long and hard and full on, and Charles' eyes meet that gaze without hesitation. Open, raw, this is how it used to be; how it should have continued to be. But Erik also loved his hatred, just as he loved Charles, and when it came to a choice between one or the other... the evil won out. Maybe Charles should be careful not to pick himself up from where he and Erik fell apart, maybe he should be less hasty to crawl back over to Erik and into his arms; _maybe this is a bad idea._

"Are you going to bed?" Charles asks, and is cowed by his own nervousness; even before Erik's gaze hardens and his jaw tightens. 

"You should go to bed too. Your bed." The catch in Erik's voice is clear, but Charles does not push.

"Fine. If that is how you want it." And Charles does not gaurd the hurt in his own voice. He turns away, counts three beats of his own clamouring heart, places his hands on the wheels of his chair and-

"Charles?" Erik has snagged his chair, just for a moment, before stepping in front of him and leaning down. Charles hates himself for flinching. "Good night; I hope you sleep well." he hears, and then his world darkens because Erik is blocking the dying light; Erik's lips are just touching his forehead, and stubble, and the smell of his body, one hand on his shoulder, _so close-_ before he pulls away.

"Good night." Charles chokes out, feeling his face burn and his eyes widen, and hearing Erik laugh lightly because of how stunned he must look. It certainly makes up for the fear Erik felt at the notion of sharing a bed with Charles; it even excuses the incident with the chess game and the chair being lifted.

 _But does it excuse Cuba? Shaw?_ That annoying voice asks, and Charles has absolutely no idea. Does it?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s c r e a m i n g  
> I love Cherik fluff but then again, my brain is like "too soon" and my heart is like "ANGSTY CHERIK" and honestly this fic is probably going to turn out longer than expected because of it. Thank you for all the kudos! Tell me how it is for you so far down below, and stay tuned for the next chapter which is coming soon because today was the last day of school before Summer break, finally :D


End file.
